


forget me nots

by ThinkingCAPSLOCK



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Event
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 18:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13863561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThinkingCAPSLOCK/pseuds/ThinkingCAPSLOCK
Summary: It doesn't take much to stir a memory - a sight, a sound, a whisper of the breeze. Sandalphon knows that all too well.





	forget me nots

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers for what makes the sky blue pt2

Sandalphon shifts the box in his arms as they approach the inn, wondering for the hundredth time how he got suckered into helping. Battles are one thing - he's the most powerful being on the Grancypher, and they would be fools not to let him join their ranks. But these missions - errands, really - where they fly across the sky, delivering foodstuffs and trinkets to farmers and merchants on behalf of Sierokarte, is completely ridiculous. It's beneath him. Anything would be a better use of his time, even sitting in an empty room alone for hours.

But Lyria had asked, and pulled his arm, refusing his repeated declines, refusing to even stop talking to him until he agreed to carry the box of preserves for them. She bobs along beside Djeeta and Vyrn, chattering away, pointing at the whitewashed walls of the inn as they approach. She looks back, catching his eye, smiling and waving. 

Sandalphon forces a scowl on his face and focuses on the box. He doesn't look up for the rest of the walk, not even up the simple wooden steps onto the veranda. He only raises his head when he hears hinges, rusted and squeaking, as the door swings open. A large draph steps out, wearing a worn but clean apron, wringing his hands. 

"Ah! You must be the Grancypher crew," he says, his low voice booming far too loudly for the short distance between them. "Great day for a walk, isn't it?"

"It's lovely!" Vyrn chimes in. Djeeta nods enthusiastically, her blue Hawkeye cap almost falling off her head. Lyria helps her pull it back on as Vyrn continues. "And you have such a lovely inn! We've never been out this way before."

"Why, thank you so much! This inn was handed down to me by…"

It's drivel, really. Sandalphon bites the inside of his cheek, eyes scanning the surroundings as he tunes out the pointless small talk. The inn is surrounded by a well-tended field, with a barn for whatever animals the innkeeper keeps on hand in one corner, and a warehouse for storage in the other. A fence stretches to the sides of the house with a path leading backwards, likely to a set of tables laid out for dining in the spring air. Flowers line each windowsill, hanging from the veranda roof in planters, the scent rich and earthy, sweet and smooth. Familiar. He takes a deep breath through his nose.

_(The blossoms tangle in the white lattice, the colours flickering hues, scattered like a prism and laid on a vine of lush green. Rich and earthy, each with its own unique scent - some sweet, some tart, some overpowering, but only if you got too close. Sandalphon's fingers trace the patterns as he waits, lost and absent, until the rustling behind him makes him turn, makes him smile. He's greeted by a set of wings as colourful as the flowers, as beautiful as-)_

He blinks back to the present as a hand clamps down, hard, on his shoulder. The draph innkeeper is mere inches away from his face, and Sandalphon's scowl deepens before the man even speaks.

"So, you're the sap they got carrying my order, huh?" He barks a laugh, and a fine mist of spittle coats Sandalphon's face. He resolves that, should he ever try and kill everyone again, this innkeeper will be at the top of the list. Djeeta, as if sensing his thoughts, clears her throat for his attention. He looks over, and she glares, eyes hard and sharp, tapping the butt of the gun slung across her back. A warning. She had guessed, then. 

Fine. Whatever. He'll play along.

"I sure am," Sandalphon replies, grinding his teeth so hard the draph recoils from the sound. Good. Sandalphon smiles, but he knows it isn't pleasant or warm. "Where would you like them? Or shall I drop them here on the-"

"Sandalphon!" Lyria's voice comes sliding in, squeaking with urgency. Despite her earlier promises, she's grabbing his arm again, huffing until he looks down at her face, puffed out in anger. "Don't be so scary! Mr. Penn's a very nice man, and you should be more polite!"

"My apologies," Sandalphon drones, not feeling remotely apologetic. He lifts his arms, mostly to get away from Lyria's grip, but also to bring attention back to the box he's still stuck carrying. "The preserves?"

"I'll need them in the warehouse for now. We've got all we need in the inn, without much extra storage space. Follow me." Mr. Penn gestures towards the warehouse, stepping around Sandalphon with a wide berth, even for a man as large as he is. Good. That's how it should be. Sandalphon follows behind, heels clinking against the stone pathway, Lyria, Djeeta and Vyrn closing in after him. 

As they round the house, Sandalphon sees he's correct - there are little white tables in rows behind the house, surrounded by a waist high fence, gated to let patrons out onto the field. Thin parasols shield them from the direct sunlight, all white and blue striped. The tablecloths vary in colours, each matched to a vase of flowers in the middle. The breeze stirs, and the tablecloths flow, dancing in the spring air one beside another. The rhythm catches his attention, and the memory plays in his mind before he can stop it, flickering like the cloth in the wind.

_(The air always seems to bend around Lucifer wherever he walks, and every time he approaches the tablecloth flutters in a breeze that was never there moments before. He's careful, poised, glowing - as if light itself was made to catch in his white hair and brilliant wings, as if nature curls towards him, seeking his warmth as they do the sun._

_It's a strange place, the garden - a patch of green life in an otherwise stone fortress, a roofless courtyard reaching up to the sky. Sandalphon knows it was created as a place for the primals to experiment, but now it's only the two of them who visit. It's why Sandalphon loves to meet him there, with the flowers and the vines and the midday warmth - Lucifer's presence makes them more beautiful, and he, in turn, is more beautiful for it.)_

"Here we are!" Mr. Penn states, unlocking the big warehouse doors with a key from around his neck. Sandalphon finds he can't remember the rest of the walk there, the tablecloths and flowers dancing in his mind, new and old, mixing together. He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts, but they rattle even more. His nails dig into the box. Someone tugs at the fabric wrapped around his waist - likely Lyria - but he doesn't glance down. He doesn't want her to ask.

The warehouse is much the same as every other warehouse they've been to. Machinery to the left, foodstuffs to the right, random clutter the innkeeper or merchant cracks a joke about to the back (and, as if on cue, Vyrn and Djeeta laugh as Mr. Penn points to a large wooden chicken painted silver from the Harvest Festival two years ago). Without the need for direction, Sandalphon slides the box beside the hundreds of similar boxes, likely also placed by hapless skyfarers who had better uses for their time. 

"Sandalphon?" Lyria, again, still glued to his side. He keeps his gaze fixed on the box he's deposited. He knows Lyria won't give up even if he pays her no heed, but he doesn't want to respond, even to dismiss her. "Is something wrong? You've gone awfully quiet and you have that look on your face you get when you're sad."

"I have no such look on my face," he snaps, cringing as the words leave his mouth. There's something about her that always baits him into replying. He crosses his arms on his chest, tapping his foot, closing himself off again. He glances around - Djeeta's busy examining the silver chicken up close. Vyrn has found a box of apples and has eaten five already. Neither will be of any help in an escape plan. He's on his own, then.

He spins on his heels, not fast enough that Lyria might get hurt by the flying bangles at his waist, but speedy enough to show the conversation will never continue, and that he's not to be followed. He strides towards the still open warehouse doors, hands in fists at his sides.

Lyria doesn't get the hint. She never does. 

"You should talk to us about it," she continues, her high-pitched voice straining as she matches his pace. "It's only been a couple months, and I know how much Lucifer meant to you. If you'd just tell us what's upsetting you, we can help get you through it."

_(The blossoms tangle in the white lattice, the drifting tablecloth, the light, the endless light, from the sky above and the man before him, the-)_

Teeth grinding, hands clenching. "This has nothing to do with him. You're the one who wanted me to come here. I came. I delivered the preserves. I'm returning to the ship."

"You're not going to feel better if you keep avoiding it. And Mr. Penn invited us to stay for snacks. It'd be rude to just go back to the ship."

"I don't care about him." He has to close his eyes for a moment as he steps outside, the light blindingly bright after the gloom of the warehouse. His eyes adjust, taking in the tables he'd seen on the way in, the inn laced with flowers, the barn, the stone pathway, and-

He stops dead. Lyria walks into his back with a startled yelp. He feels her push herself back up, but it barely registers. His attention is focused, sharp, strained. He blinks, again and again, but the image lingers if his eyes are opened or closed. 

A gazebo, surrounded in white lattice, vines twisting over it, flowers sprouting every direction, every colour. A table, covered in a fine silk cloth, white on white. Loose petals from the surrounding flowers cover it, splashing colour and life into the private space. Two chairs pulled back just enough to be welcoming, not far enough to seem unused. A space so small, yet so comfortable. So welcoming. So... familiar.

It's been two thousand years, but it feels like nothing more than moments, seconds, since he last saw it.

Lyria calls to him, but he's already running, already leaving her behind, heels digging into the grass, chest heaving, mind racing, replaying his life one moment at a time.

_(The two of them meeting at dawn over a small cup of coffee, the buds still closed until Lucifer speaks, until his voice coaxes them awake. Sandalphon's eyes growing wide at the sight, at the gentleness of Lucifer's fingers brushing the blue petals, pollen staining his nails. He stares in fascination, intrigued by the life, calling Sandalphon closer to observe, to touch, to experiment and learn alongside him._

_When Sandalphon's fingers slip around the mug, the ceramic shattering, coffee staining the tablecloth, blood staining his fingers. The red and brown mix, dark and hideous, a vivid scar on the beauty of the gazebo. Sandalphon stares, shocked, until Lucifer sweeps the cloth away, blood and coffee and all, telling Sandalphon to sit tight as he retrieves bandages. When he returns, Sandalphon has to teach him how to apply them. Lucifer has never needed them before._

_The endless hours together, from morning to midday to sunset, talking, dreaming, creating. Lucifer is full of questions, and although Sandalphon has no sure answers, about himself or the world, Lucifer always listens, always nods along, always asks him more. They debate over who pours the next round of coffee, over what blends and mixes to try next, over what the patterns mean on the mugs they share and in the clouds they see. It's always too soon when Lucifer gets called away, and as he leaves, Sandalphon wilts with the flowers at the absence of the sun._

_Lucifer arriving in the dead of night as Sandalphon sits by the table, head tucked against his knees, thoughts swirling with anger and confusion and the weight of his existence. The moon shines bright, the lattice making shadows play on their skin. The moment is still, quiet, short - but it is theirs, in their place, and Lucifer's presence is all Sandalphon needs to feel less alone. When Lucifer asks if he should make something for them to drink, Sandalphon doesn't say no._

_He never says no.)_

It is not the same gazebo.

Some part of him already knew that - that the place he called home is miles away, that the person he called home is further still. But some terrible part of him had hoped, and it's that part that hurts when Sandalphon reaches the gazebo steps, as his fingers touch the woodwork, the plants. It's too big. The whites are not white enough, the flowers too mundane, too normal. The tablecloth is well worn, an heirloom as much as it is a work of art. The chairs are bland, stark, roughly made and barely used. 

Lucifer is not there - he never has been, and will never be. That hurts the most. 

Sandalphon walks to the table, fingers tracing the tablecloth, brushing petals away. The latticework casts shadows on his skin, so familiar, yet not quite right - it's too tight, the shape too square. The smell is wrong. The breeze is wrong. He wants to hate it for the wrongness, wants to throw the table, the chairs, bring the roof down on itself. He has the strength to - even without Lucifer's power, he could manage that much. He wants to be angry, to rage, to destroy - but the anger does not come.

He sits down at one of the chairs. It's uncomfortable, unfamiliar. He shifts, but it doesn't help. His elbows rest on the table, his forehead pressed against his hands. He closes his eyes, his heart straining in his chest, his mind too full, too empty, too busy and not busy enough. 

_(If I could be granted one request...)_

Sandalphon shakes, eyes tight, chest tighter.

_(I'd like to share one more cup of coffee with you... in that shaded garden.)_

But it is not the same gazebo. It is not the same garden. 

He cannot grant the request, however much he wants to.

He doesn't know how much time passes until he hears the sound of bare feet on the steps, the dragging of the other chair beside his own. It can't have been too long - when Sandalphon blinks his eyes open, the sun is near in the same spot, the shadows playing in the same way across him and his guest. Lyria's eyes are wide, her lower lip pouting, trembling, as if she has something to say she doesn't dare try to. Sandalphon pushes himself upright, trying to steel his face into a smirk.

"What?" He means it to come out as a snap, but it sounds watery, nasally, disgusting. He scowls, wiping a hand across his face. His cheeks are wetter than he'd thought, his eyes still rimmed, his vision blurring as he blinks back the last of his tears. "Do you need something?"

"...No," Lyria murmurs. "I don't." 

She looks at him, the quiver in her lip disappearing, the words she doesn't say hanging in the air. Something sticks in his throat - something about her determination, her silence, her small hands curling towards his. He tells himself she's just a child, that she'd never understand, that she won't be able to help. 

It doesn't stand a chance against her steady, hopeful gaze. 

"Not now." The words come out before Sandalphon realizes they're in the air, before he realizes he can't take them back. He clears his throat, looking down at the petals. "Later, though." 

"Later," Lyria repeats. She tugs his hand, getting up on her feet. The shadows pattern her dress as she shifts and pulls. "Mr. Penn has snacks and coffee waiting for us inside. Djeeta and Vyrn went ahead with him. We should go meet up with them. Okay?"

Sandalphon opens his mouth to tell her no, that he isn't ready, that he wants to stay and mourn and linger as long as he can. But she's insistent, grinding her heels into the tile in an attempt to get him to stand. He frowns, and sighs, and relents, standing slow enough that she doesn't topple right over with effort. 

Lyria's smile lights the gazebo, its brilliance too close for him to look away from. It isn't like Lucifer's - nothing is, and nothing will be again - but it has its own softness, its own power. It doesn't touch the flowers, or the shadows, or the sun itself. But it eases the ache in his chest, just a little. 

"Okay," he says. 

She pulls again, and he lets her take his hand, lets her pull him towards the inn, step by step across the field. His gaze only flickers back to the gazebo once: a short look over his shoulder at the place that's almost-home, almost-right. The colours seem brighter around it, glowing, iridescent. A breeze stirs, brushing his face, heavy with the sweetness of flowers, the warmth of the day. 

_(The blossoms tangle in the white lattice-)_

It's so close to perfect. So very, very close.

Lyria squeezes his hand, once, tight. He squeezes hers back.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to cry abt lucisan with me over on twitter [@tamocch](https://twitter.com/tamocch)


End file.
